


Hold the Line

by darkbluebox



Series: Soft [2]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Dudes healing and recovering and talking about their feelings, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PDA, Post-Canon, Trauma Recovery, Tumblr Prompt, and being a little bit gay, fight me, kevin loves his family, what's better than this? guys being dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23846245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkbluebox/pseuds/darkbluebox
Summary: Neil goes down in the first quarter, and he goes down hard.Kevin knows the signs of a panic attack all too well. Convincing Neil to trust that the Foxes will hold the line while he recovers? That's the tricky part.Maybe they think Kevin is going soft; maybe that's not such a bad thing after all.
Relationships: Kevin Day & Neil Josten, Neil Josten & The Foxes (All For The Game), Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Series: Soft [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710355
Comments: 60
Kudos: 671





	Hold the Line

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be for the "foxes reacting to soft Andriel" prompt but I went a bit off-track so I posted [something else for that instead.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743591) This is not the fic I planned on writing but one I enjoyed making nonetheless!
> 
> Content warning: panic attacks, references to past abuse.

“What are you doing, Hemmick?” Kevin is so very, _very_ tired, and if there’s one thing the foxes excel at, it’s kicking a man who is already down. “Pick up your damn racquet and get moving.” His words, as usual, fall on deaf ears.

“They don’t even _act_ like a couple,” Nicky says, pouting. Kevin fumbles for the threads of whatever conversation Nicky is holding with himself before looking to the bleachers where Neil and Andrew are sitting. They aren’t speaking, several feet apart and each apparently oblivious to the presence of the other. To the casual observer, they would look like strangers.

Allison joins them at centre-court, fastening the strap of her gloves with her teeth.

“What were you expecting from the monster? Kisses and cuddles at the half-way line?” she says through a mouthful of mitten, leaning on her racquet as she follows Nicky’s gaze.

“I don’t know. I expected _something_. It’s not like they’ve got anything to hide now.”

Kevin is ten seconds from knocking heads together. “Can we play Exy now? _Please?_ ”

“C’mon, Kevin, you gotta think it’s weird too. You spend more time with them than anyone. Give us the scoop. We’ve ruled out hate sex, but it’s gotta be _something_.” Nicky stops ogling his cousin and his partner to turn pleading eyes on Kevin. Allison quirks an eyebrow expectantly.

“You could settle some bets for us, Kevin. Do they even touch each other?”

Kevin bites back a scathing reply. Allison is relentless where there’s a bet to be won, and Nicky won’t stop whining until he gets some kind of answer. Sometimes, the only way to get the foxes to shut up and play is to give them what they want. _Pick your battles_ , as his mother would have put it.

Kevin rolls his eyes to the ceiling as though it might fall in on him and save him from this conversation. Nicky takes his grimace as a rebuttal.

“C’mon, Kevin. Give us _something_.”

“Like what?”

“Have you ever seen them…” Nicky waves his hands in the most non-descript gesture imaginable. Kevin, having spent way too much time around Nicky over the years, prepares his most disgusted expression. “…being, like, soft?”

Allison snorts. “Two much steel in the pair of them for soft.”

Nicky looks deeply troubled by the suggestion. “I know they have their… issues, but it’s not like the pair of them are completely broken.” He turns back to Kevin. “Right?”

Kevin looks at Nicky for a long moment. The strange thing is that Nicky and Aaron have known Andrew longer than any of them yet can still be so blind to how Andrew works, and how his relationships to others work by extension. He mulls over his answer, trying to find the right size of crumb that will get them off his back and back on the court without feeling like a violation of his friends’ privacy.

“Maybe their soft doesn’t look the same as yours,” says Kevin at last. “Look harder.”

Their heads swing back to the bench in unison. Neil and Andrew still aren’t talking, but they’re both swinging their legs in unison, toes barely scuffing the floor.

Nicky and Allison turn back to him, but Kevin raps the butt of his stick off the floor, silencing them mid-protest. The court doors fly open, admitting the rest of the team in their usual shambles, and he is saved from further interrogation. He doesn’t miss, however, the evaluating glance Nicky and Allison pass each other, like they’re filing notes away for later.

*

Neil goes down in the first quarter, and he goes down _hard_. Kevin is half-way to Neil, who has yet to drag himself up onto his knees, but Andrew beats him to it. Kevin resists the urge to gripe at Andrew’s sudden burst of speed – Andrew is capable of crossing the entire court in seconds flat, yet acts like anything more than snail-pace in goal will kill him – until Kevin sees why he’s moving so quickly.

Neil’s hands are shaking like they’ve had electricity shot through them, and his breathing is not the laboured rhythm of exertion but the panicked hiccups of a panic attack. Kevin knows the signs.

His first thought is of the cameras, the audience, the witnesses – Kevin spent so much of his life under the glare of media flashbulbs that he struggles to think of much else. He knows he lets the worries spill over onto others more than he should, but for Neil it’s different – his future career depends on his perceived stability, and if Neil’s career falls through then the wrath of Ichirou Moriyama will fall upon all of them.

Remembering an old trick they used to use when Andrew was coming down from his meds, Kevin kneels beside them, planting himself between Neil and the nearest camera like a shield. He tugs Neil’s racquet over and pretends to inspect it for damage, ignoring the muted discussion happening inches from his face.

The rest of the foxes catch on quickly, crowding around them with concern that isn’t entirely manufactured. Dan nudges them into a neat circle that cuts the pair off from the gaze of the spectators. The opposing team watches from a distance, stunned by the sudden show of solidarity from a team that had spent most of the preceding hour screaming at each other.

None of the foxes are doing a great job at leaving the pair with their privacy, but there’s only so much they can do when they’re crowded around the pair in close proximity. The alternative is leaving Neil exposed to the world, and if the foxes have proven anything it’s that each of them is willing to put everything on the line to protect their number ten, even if this means going against his wishes from time to time.

It’s clear Neil is still somewhere else. Judging by the glazed look in his eyes, it’s a place Kevin knows far too well.

Andrew snaps his fingers in front of Neil’s face. The action draws a flicker of movement from Neil, half-way to recognition.

“What did he do?” Andrew asks in a low voice. He’s referring to the defensive dealer who knocked Neil down, a six-foot-four mountain of a man with an attitude Kevin has seen matched only within the walls of the nest.

“I’m fine.”

Kevin resists the urge to smack Neil around the back of the head, but only because he doubts he would survive Andrew’s retaliation. There’s an impatient knock against the plexiglass walls as one of the referees urges them on.

“Tell Wymack you want a substitution.”

It really isn’t the time. Kevin is about to say so, but Neil beats him to it. “That isn’t the strategy we agreed on. I’m fine.”

One of the other Foxes snorts. Neil’s eyes flicker up, but Andrew snaps his fingers again, drawing his attention back. “Ask for the sub.” It’s not a tone that leaves room for argument.

Neil lets out a breath. He looks to Kevin. “Can you hold the line?”

There’s still a glassy look to him. It reminds Kevin too much of the night they played the Bearcats, the awful dead look in Neil’s eyes as he tumbled back into the claws of a life he had sacrificed everything to escape.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” says Kevin. Neil grins, not the awful, dead grin of his father but his own. He raises his hand, and the foxes break apart so that Wymack can see the signal.

As Neil’s substitute jogs into place, Kevin flexes his left hand. He’s still a long way off playing full matches with it, but he can do this much. He taps the racquet off the court floor before tossing it to his left, and the crowd goes wild.

*

The defensive dealer lasts all of three minutes before Andrew’s bombardment of brutally aimed balls from the goal finally knocks his feet out from under him. He leaves the court with a bloody nose and a bloodier scowl, and Andrew sends him off with a wave that would look friendly to anyone who didn’t know him.

The first thing Neil does as they trail into the locker rooms is hand Andrew his water bottle. Andrew takes it, and they stare at each other for a long moment, a silent conversation Kevin has come to recognise as mutual reassurance. _I’m here, you’re here, we aren’t going anywhere_.

None of the foxes will be too overbearing with concern while Andrew is at Neil’s side, and so that is where he stays the length of the drive home. They share a seat at the back of the bus, and no threats are needed for the foxes to know not to bother them.

Kevin is halfway to a well-earned nap when Nicky and Allison’s heads appear over the back of the row in front of him.

“Did you see what the dealer did to Neil?”

“Does it matter?” He didn’t, although he has some theories. Then again, Neil’s recovery hasn’t exactly been a straight upwards line. The wrong jerk of a racquet in Kevin’s peripheral vision will still make Kevin twitch, and it’s been years since one was turned upon him. He can only guess at the intricacies of Neil’s triggers, but sometimes a trigger can be nothing at all.

“I still say they’re weird.” Allison’s gaze skips the rows of seats to the back, where the tops of Neil and Andrew’s heads are barely visible. “Andrew never touched him the entire time, did you notice?”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Kevin snaps, tired and ready for his nap. “It’s called respecting boundaries. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

Allison holds up her hands like she’s under attack.

“No, he’s right, I think,” says Nicky. “They’re a different kind of soft.”

Maybe there’s hope for him yet.

“Takes one to know one, doesn’t it, Kevin?” Nicky continues, and Kevin wishes he had a racquet in his hands to break over Nicky’s head.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Just because we got distracted by Andrew going full Mamma Bear doesn’t mean I don’t see you getting all defensive over them.”

“Huh,” says Allison, her eyes narrowing. “If you weren’t such a bastard, I would say it was sweet.”

Kevin pulls his hood down over his face. “Go away.”

Snickering, they leave him to sleep.

*

Kevin stumbles into the kitchen at the ass-crack of dawn, shaking his head in the vain hope that he can throw the nightmares out with sheer force alone. He hadn’t noticed as he rolled out of his bunk that both Neil and Andrew’s were unoccupied, only realising in hindsight when he finds the pair of them sprawled on the beanbags in front of the TV, which throws endless static over their sleeping forms. Kevin wonders if boiling a kettle will wake them – he has no hope of sleeping again unless green tea is involved – but the jerk of Andrew’s head tells Kevin that he’s too late.

He doesn’t bother with an apology, because he knows they’re of little interest to Andrew. He averts his eyes instead as he busies himself in the kitchen.

He knows Andrew and Neil would rather chew glass than make any public display of affection, not out of shame or fear but more because they didn’t feel the need to put themselves on display to satisfy the wants of others. He wonders what it must feel like, not having to perform on demand for the world in the way that Kevin has been trained to his entire life.

That’s why he expects Andrew to shrug Neil off when Kevin shows no sign of leaving, but when he slumps onto the couch a few minutes later with a mug clasped between his hands he’s surprised to see them still wrapped up in each other. Andrew’s eyes meet his for a moment, heavy and unblinking, before they slide shut once again.

The scene before him is what the others would probably call soft. The word isn’t one Kevin is used to having in his vocabulary, but it’s one he has been considering adding with increasing frequency, just to have a way of putting words to the feeling in his chest every time his team crowds around him to celebrate a goal together, or when his father claps him on the shoulder with something akin to pride. Neil and Andrew are a sprawling puddle of loose and tangled limbs across the bean bags, an assortment of empty crisp packets and sweet wrappers nestled at their feet like autumn leaves. They’re turned in towards each other, like they fell asleep mid-staring match, and their hands, while not quite touching, are side-by-side. Respecting each other’s distance but ready to take hold should unknown forces threaten to rip them from each other. The flickering shadows from the television cast Neil’s scars in sharp, black outlines, but they do nothing to detract from how much younger he looks in the pale light, the lines around his eyes smoothed out by sleep. Andrew’s face, on the other hand, is thrown into harsh angles by the contrasting shadows, accentuating the angle of his cheekbones and throwing shadows beneath his eyes. The light is bright enough that the faint freckles across his nose are just visible.

Kevin rips his gaze from them before Andrew can catch him staring and stares instead into the TV static, letting his mind fall into practiced blankness. The next thing he’s aware of is Neil sinking into the couch beside him. The room is brighter, warmer, and the beanbags have long since been abandoned.

“Sleeping upright is bad for your back,” Neil quotes Kevin’s own advice back to him.

“Talking to me this early is bad for your health,” Kevin retorts. “Yet here you are.”

“It’s four in the afternoon!”

Kevin bolts upright with a curse on his lips, but Neil lets out one of his muted snickers and Kevin realises that he’s being screwed with. “Fuck you,” he says, sinking back into the sofa cushions. The wall clock, he notices too late, reads 7:15.

“I’m going on a run. Come with?”

Kevin nods, even if every instinct is telling him to melt into the couch and stay there until noon. It’s just one of many battles he wages against himself on a daily basis.

Neil is waiting for him at the kerb when Kevin stumbles out of Fox Tower ten minutes later in running gear. He’s bouncing in place like the pavement is too hot to stand on, and as soon as Kevin gives the signal he shoots off like a bullet.

Being wildly outmatched has never done anything to quell Kevin’s competitive spirit; he tears after Neil like his life depends on it, even though the light-footed striker is practically over the horizon already.

They break on a park bench just off perimeter road. Joggers, dog-walkers, students and cyclists flash past while the pair inhale their water bottles, chests heaving in sync. There’s a pallor beneath Neil’s sheen of sweat which makes Kevin wonder exactly what he’s running from today.

The answer comes sooner than expected.

“How’s your hand?”

Kevin starts, flexing it automatically even though there’s no real need. Most of the pains are phantom ones that disappear until he’s reminded of his injuries. “It’s fine.”

“That’s my line.”

“It was aching a little by the end of the match, but I spent the whole evening doing Abby’s exercises. I know my limits,” Kevin answers snippily.

“It’s not about your limits. You shouldn’t have been forced to-”

“I wasn’t _forced_.”

“I _mean_ , I shouldn’t have put you in that position.” Neil’s knuckles whiten as they clench in the fabric of his shorts.

Kevin huffs out a breath of air. He’s always had a one-track mind; he’s under no delusions that his feelings about Exy are anything but abnormal. Total dedication, total _obsession_ , were the demands upon which his survival depended. Still are, but to a lesser extent. He remembers looking Neil in the eye the first day he left his room without a coating of bandages to hide behind and asking _can you play?_ Not because he worried about the team’s chances in upcoming matches – although that was always a worry – but because without Exy, Kevin was nothing. He still can’t help but behave as though it’s the same for everyone else.

But he’s grown in the intervening months, grown enough to understand that while, yes, every match is important, failing to protect a player’s health for the sake of short-term results will only cause more damage in the long term. When he thinks of Riko – an activity he still fights to pull himself back from, another daily battle to add to the pile – he thinks of the pressure crushing down on him, on both of them, to perform in spite of the injuries, physical and mental, the pressure that built and built from year to year, warping Riko beyond recognition and grinding Kevin into the ground. He won’t let himself become the people who made them what they were.

“You were no use to the team in the state you were in,” Kevin says. Neil’s flinch says that this is not news to him. Kevin clears his throat. He isn’t good at this. He’s still learning to be this. Not soft, no, but not so hard either. “The first time I stood on a court after I left the nest… I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t…” Kevin hates this. He hates talking about this, he has enough of it with Bee and Abby. Neil doesn’t need to hear this. Except he _does_. “This isn’t the sort of problem you fix overnight. Not by training more, not by pushing yourself harder. All that will do is break you.”

Neil is silent for a long moment. “Wesninski,” he says at last, like the word was sticking in his throat. “The player. As we collided, he called me Wesninski, and I just… for a moment, I wasn’t me.”

Kevin closes his eyes. He is still called a raven often enough to understand – perhaps not completely, but close enough – the awful, shrinking sensation of being thrown back into another life with a single word. “It won’t be the last time someone calls you that, Josten. Especially not if word gets out.”

Neil shakes his head. “If people start doubting me-”

“Fucking listen to me, you idiot.” Kevin turns fully to face him. “I’m not telling you to fix the problem immediately. I’m saying we’ll take care of things until you can.”

“We?” Even after all this time, Neil can be so helpless that it _hurts_.

“You know. The team. Coach. Andrew.”

Neil huffs. “And you.”

“Obviously.”

Neil unclenches his knuckles at last. “Better be careful, Kevin. Next thing you know, they’ll be saying you’re going soft on us.”

Kevin shoves Neil. Not the way Riko used to shove him out of his way if Kevin had the bad luck or poor judgement to be standing in his path. He does it in a way that has Neil grinning, shoving him back playfully as he gets back to his feet.

Neil takes off, calling over his shoulder to challenge Kevin to a race as he does. Kevin cusses him out, but nonetheless takes off after him, chasing the sound of Neil’s laughter all the way home.

Maybe going soft isn’t so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me [on tumblr](https://darkblueboxs.tumblr.com) and [twitter.](https://twitter.com/darkblueboxs) Still taking requests so help me chase the lockdown crazies away!
> 
> Thanks for reading, please let me know what you thought!


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